Scars
by Lake of Rage
Summary: (ZeLink Week Day 3: "Scars") WINDWAKER SPOILERS! Link doesn't want people looking at his scars, least of all Tetra. Unfortunately, she has other plans. But does it really matter if they don't disgust her like he feared? Obsessively TeLink (Tetra/Link).


_Because apparently yesterday's prompt wasn't angsty enough to meet my standards. ...As a matter of fact, it wasn't anywhere near my usual level of angst. Seriously. Look at the last prompt and the minuscule amount of angst present, and then look at something like_ Ultimatum _or_ Carry Me to Safety _or_ Ha Ha (It's Not Funny). _You'll get a real good picture of what my standard angst level is and just how screwed up in the head I am. (Spoiler alert: very)_

 _Anyway, today's prompt was "scars", which I suppose really couldn't have gone in a fluffy direction, but I never meant for it to get quite this depressing. Although, to be fair, the ending is much fluffier than it probably could have been, given my penchant for ending angsty oneshots on not-so-pleasant notes (see:_ Carry Me to Safety _and_ Ha Ha It's Not Funny _, not to mention_ An Unheard Goodbye. _)_

 _Anyway, this is actually TeLink, not ZeLink, but I checked the rules and apparently TeLink counts since Tetra is technically Zelda, which is good since I probably would have done TeLink for at least one of the prompts even if it was against the rules. SheiLink, or whatever it's called, is also allowed, so you might want to expect a little of that, too. Is it obvious that I like more BA forms of Zelda?_

 _Anyway! Sorry, I keep getting off track. With all that out of the way, let's get this ship a'sailin'._

* * *

 **Scars**

Maybe he was a little self-conscious of them. Maybe not. But whether or not he had a slight panic attack whenever they were exposed—whether or not he felt his skin crawl under imaginary gazes, his breaths quickening and his chest rising and falling too rapidly for comfort—Link didn't want anyone looking at his scars.

Why would he? He knew, of course, that many men were proud of their scars, especially pirates. To those men, scars signified valor and the ability to come back from fatal injuries; to brave the battlefield without flinching and live to tell the tale. He didn't have the same viewpoint. Sure, they could flaunt their own slashes and burns as much as they wanted; he didn't think any less of them for it. But, to him, each and every scar was nothing more than a bad memory; a reminder of his failure to do such and such or the pain that came from doing so and so.

So, no, Link didn't want anyone looking at his scars, least of all _her_. He was pretty sure that no one would want _her_ looking at their scars: she was the most likely to mock and roll her eyes and say _well damn_ _, talk about weakness._ After all, she didn't exactly parade her own scars, and she even sometimes scolded Gonzo for showing his off. _I don't see how being stupid enough to get scars is something to brag about._ And, just like that, Link's stomach had plummeted down to rest between his hip bones.

Because Tetra thought of scars as weak.

Being an adolescent, he had always been a little embarrassed about his scars, even back home, when they were just a few cuts and scrapes, barely visible. But those fears had faded as soon as he passed the magical age of 13, and, since then, he may have hated the idea of himself or others seeing them, but he didn't _fear_ it. Rationality, which he had picked up from the King of Red Lions himself, told him that no one would think less of him because of them.

But rationality was sometimes wrong, it seemed, because Tetra thought of scars as weak, and he valued Tetra's opinion, and he was _drenched_ in scars from the collarbone down, front and back, torso and legs, and _in Tetra's eyes, he was the weakest person to ever be within five feet of her._

If any of the pirates had noticed the way he froze in horror their Captain's simple statement, they didn't confront him. Hastily, he had excused himself, and quickly had relocated to stand in front of the only mirror in the entirety of the ship—a large, body-length pane of silver that they had found on a treasure dive—and examine his scars for as long as he could stomach before struggling back into his tunic and heaving over the side of the ship.

He had never expected winning Tetra over to be easy. He even often had times where he wondered whether or not he should even try. After all, he did definitely love her—it was hard to mistake the flutter in his stomach that he'd felt at first, which had eventually faded away to just a general contentment whenever he was around her, and an intense excitement at the mere idea of hanging out with her.

But she hardly seemed to return the feelings, going out of her way to bombard him with insults every step he took. That alone was enough to make him reconsider. He didn't want to forfeit the friendship they already had, and Tetra was no demure girl. If he made a move and she was disgusted at the idea, then she wouldn't hesitate to kick him off the ship and just never speak to him again—and the King of Red Lions, although it had sentimental value, was hardly comfortable as a full-time residence (he still had back problems from those months).

And now any hope he may have still harbored was well and truly demolished, because she thought scars were _weak_ and she could never love someone who was weak and, for Din's sake, if scars were weak than he might as well just hand his sword down to Aryll and have her take his place as Hero of the Winds.

It occurred to him, once, that perhaps her standards were a little too high. After all, a man without scars, in this day and age? But, then again, he reminded himself miserably, she was a _Princess._ She had every reason for high standards. And, really, how could he have ever expected a shot with her anyway? She was a Princess, and also a pirate—a pirate _Captain,_ even. Anyone else would be jumping at the opportunity, and there were far more eligible bachelors than someone with so many scars.

That was around the time that he dug through the skeletons in his closet and resurrected the fear and loathing of his own body.

And now here he was, standing in front of the mirror and trying to coax himself out of his nightclothes.

Honestly, he wasn't sure whether this was going to do any good, or even if it was going to work at all. After all, he really did hate having to look at them, and forcing himself to do so anyway had never helped him before. Now, though, he wasn't really aiming to get over any phobias or anything of the sort. He just had to put himself in his place again.

Because damn it, it was so _hard_ sometimes to remember that, even though he loved her and she seemed to at least tolerate him, there wasn't, would never be, and _could_ never be anything between them, because he was weak and she was strong, and she could do so much better. When she actually laughed at the pirates' antics instead of giving her usual eye-roll—when she winked at him and set his heart racing, but it was just a casual action—when she grinned and said mockingly in a shrill voice, "Oh, my _he-ro."_

So pretty much any time she was around him, he supposed.

This time had been even more innocent than most, and he cursed himself silently for letting the problem get worse rather than getting it under control. He'd been teasing her for having fallen asleep on her shift, and she had just given him a nasty grin, reminded him of all the impromptu naps he had taken in the past years, and elbowed him roughly in the ribs. Mere contact with her was enough to send his mind reeling, and he had quickly ended that conversation and fled, oblivious to her contemplative frown as he left.

Now, as he slowly curled his fingers around the edge of his blue crawfish nightshirt, he couldn't help but hiss profanities under his breath at the naive side of him that had let his guard down. Nowadays, he had to be constantly alert, ready to defend himself against her unwitting attacks. Movements sluggish as he fought the urge to just tug the shirt back down and curl up in the corner until the eyes stopped watching him, Link pulled the shirt up, stopping when the hem was bunched around his ribcage.

As usual, nausea was the first thing he felt. Although his abdomen was corded with muscle that he might have otherwise been proud of, he couldn't help but let his gaze linger on the countless pale slashes that crisscrossed and twisted around his torso, not to mention the small burns that littered him and the raised, puffy flesh of the corner of one huge scar. Sucking in breath, he stretched out his hand and traced the reflection of the scars against the mirror; he couldn't bear to touch them.

No, no. He wasn't going to be touching his filthy self until the scars had receded a bit more. If that ever happened.

Suddenly, people were watching him. He couldn't tell you how he knew, but he did—yes, there were definitely eyes on him; raking critically down his exposed torso and taking in every imperfection; every inch of vile flesh. Gasping for breath, he dropped the shirt back down and fell to the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

When he finally regained himself, he stood again and straightened his clothes, mostly to buy time before he'd have to keep going. Unfortunately, that couldn't last forever, and, soon enough, he was rolling his sleeves up to his shoulders.

His arms weren't as bad as his torso. Still, he couldn't help but close his eyes, not wanting to look at them for any longer than necessary. He trailed his fingertips up them, tracing the swirls of pale cuts and dark burns. His skin was so uneven that he felt like a giant rubbing the landscape of Outset.

After steadying himself with a few deep breaths, he once more groped blindly for the hem of his shirt, grasping it firmly within sweaty fingers. This time, the eyes weren't the issue, although he could sense they were still there, boring into his neck and searing through his elbows. This time, he was more worried about the memories resurfacing, scratching at his skin with long claws; lashing out with vines and tentacles against his back; crackling across his limbs like electricity and leaving mottled burns in their wake.

Before he had a chance to shimmy out of his clothing entirely, there were footsteps. He barely acknowledged them, too wrapped up in his struggle to repress those flashbacks, but it was hard to ignore the voice of his greatest ally.

"What are you _doing_ in there?"

His breath caught in his throat, turned tail, and slammed back into his chest with the force of a diving Kargaroc. Tetra's voice was just around the corner—damn it, why were there no _doors_ in this ship?!—"Don't come in!" he cried, then winced at his own stupidity. Predictably, Tetra was only spurred on by this, and she quickened her pace, appearing in the open doorway just as he frantically tugged his sleeves back down to his wrists.

"Why not?" she challenged, smirking at him knowingly in a "you-can't-have-thought-that-would-stop-me" sort of way. That smirk quickly faded to a slight frown when Link's only response was to nervously straighten his shirt. "What, were you ogling yourself?" And there was the mocking again. Link couldn't help but heave a sigh of relief: she hadn't seen anything, then. If she had, she'd either latch on to it as something to mock or yell at him for "being stupid enough to get scars".

"There can't be much there to look at," she continued, making a big show of looking him up and down before wrinkling her nose and rolling her eyes. If he hadn't long since gotten accustomed to her teasing, he might have blushed at that.

"There isn't," he assured her, playing along with a weak grin. "But a man has to appreciate himself, doesn't he?"

At that, she only snorted. "Ha! A _man._ You say that like it applies to you, _hero boy."_

Link chuckled slightly in response, finally feeling his heartbeat return to normal and the influx of memories subside. He supposed he should be grateful to her for stopping him before he had a chance to go into full-on panic mode; usually, that only happened when he encountered something material that made him flash back to his journey. Thunder to remind him of Gohma; flickering lanterns to remind him of Jalhalla; large fires to remind him of the Temple of the Gods.

It took him a moment to realize that he had zoned out, staring blankly into the distance. When he broke free of his reverie, Tetra was snapping her fingers in front of his face, scowling slightly. "You still in there?" she asked, flicking him in the forehead once his eyes had refocused. "Or are you still awestruck from looking at your _hot bod_ for too long?"

He never had to answer. Usually, he would have been relieved that he wasn't forced to come up with some random banter to distract her from his strange behavior. This time, however, it was something much worse that took the question's place. With a snicker, Tetra applied her trademark smirk one last time. "If it's really that _great_ , then let's take a look!"

He barely had time to react. Eyes glinting mischievously, she leaped forward, tackling him roughly to the wooden floor below.

Their fight was short, but intense. They brawled often, and Link was almost always victorious, but she already had the upper hand, and she wasn't the captain of a horde of pirates just because she was secretly Princess Zelda. Soon, cackling, she managed to get her fingers under his shirt and press his legs to the floor with her own.

Panicked and desperate, Link resorted to flailing and swatting at her arms, but to no avail. Knowing that telling her to stop would garner only another laugh, he didn't waste his breath, although he did unwillingly release an undignified squeak as she pinned his arms aside with one of her own. Grinning nastily, Tetra stuck her tongue out like a child as her free hand clutched the hem of his shirt and, with one last chortle, she peeled it off.

Link fell still.

On the contrary, Tetra quickly jumped back to her feet and stepped back against the wall, holding her prize high above her head and extending one hand as if to hold Link back, obviously expecting him to make a lunge for it. As soon as her weight vanished, he did the opposite, scrambling backwards until his back hit the chilled silver mirror. Tetra's weight may have been gone, but a new weight had planted itself firmly on his chest, and he quickly found himself struggling for breath, chest heaving.

In any other scenario, he might have blushed. This was not any other scenario.

His eyes were locked onto Tetra, waiting for the diatribe to start; waiting for the disgust. Perhaps he should have been moving; perhaps he should have been running around as fast as he could so that the countless marks were harder to see. He couldn't. At the moment, he was stiff as an Armos, and he found himself fearing that the wounds would reopen if he so much as twitched, spilling blood everywhere and just making them even more evident.

"...What exactly am I looking at here?"

He could hear the words, but he couldn't comprehend them. All he was focusing on was the vague blur of blue, white, red, and yellow that was swirling in front of him. Only when Tetra glanced at his bare torso did his vision sharpen again. She seemed disinterested. "What, am I supposed to be _gawking_ or something?" Adopting a mockingly high voice, she squealed, "Oh, hero _,_ what large _biceps_ you have!" and battled her eyelashes with a simper before bursting out laughing. "Yeah, don't flatter yourself."

Her falsetto finally snapped him out of his shell-shocked horror. Flinching, he threw his arms around himself, gripping his sides tightly enough to leave impressions of his fingers. When Tetra just blinked at him, baffled, he shrunk back in shame, feeling himself begin to quiver.

He didn't know where this terror was coming from. He really didn't. After all, she was a pirate, but she wasn't heartless. Surely, even if she did see the scars ( _weakness weakness weakness_ ), she wouldn't kick him off just for having them. But, somehow, just knowing that his image was sullied, that he would now be _boy_ instead of _hero boy_ forevermore, was enough to warrant such an extreme reaction, according to his nerves.

Hadn't the Triforce of Courage chosen him? Then why on earth was this happening? Perhaps it had made a mistake after all.

With a sigh, Tetra strode forward, tossing his nightshirt aside. "No, that's cool. Go ahead and freak out for no reason," she murmured under her breath; Link got the feeling that he wasn't suppose to have heard that. Nonetheless, she plopped himself down next to him and awkwardly draped an arm over his shoulders. "Whatever's up—cool your jets." She paused, sighed again, then added, "And you can talk to me if you want to. Or whatever."

Link was left flabbergasted, staring blankly at her face, which was turned resolutely away from his, facing straight forward. "I—I can— _talk_ to you?" he repeated incredulously, trying and failing to process her words and actions of the past ten seconds.

"Or whatever," she clarified, rolling her eyes.

At the moment, he really couldn't have cared any less about the added "or whatever". She had seen his scars. Not just some of them, either; she had taken a good long look at his entire torso and arms. Sure, she hadn't seen his back, which was even worse, but this had to be enough to disgust her, right? So why was she just casually sitting down next to him—even _touching_ him? Didn't she _get_ it?

In the end, he only sort of took her up on her offer. "My scars," he said dumbly, unable to form a coherent sentence but just collected enough to point out the matter of greatest importance.

She raised an eyebrow, shooting him a sidelong glance.

"Yeah. What about them?"

That was what finally broke the dam. "Y-you said scars are _weak!"_ he cried rather shrilly, gesturing violently with his arms; not quite caring anymore that he was just drawing attention to the many breaks on their skin. "Aren't you _pissed?"_

Tetra's sigh was so loud this time that he actually jumped a little. Slumping over, she reached up with her free hand and massaged her forehead. "I was talking to _Gonzo,"_ she said wearily, as if this should have been obvious to him. "That one scar he always brags about? _That_ one is a sign of weakness because he got it just by being an idiot and messing around with some prehistoric sword we found." More and more irritation began to build in her tone as she gathered speed. "Scars themselves aren't _weak,_ hero boy. Hell, I have tons!" At that, she perked up a bit, an idea taking root. "In fact—"

Without warning, she surged to her feet and, before Link could react, stripped out of her vest, her shirt quickly following suit. Having finally gotten a hold of himself, Link went perfectly crimson in the face and squeezed his eyes shut, jerking his head to the side and throwing his arms up for good measure. "Tetra!" he hissed. "What the hell?!"

"Don't make it weird," was her only response.

"I'm not making it weird!" he snapped in reply, eyes only screwing even tighter shut as he attempted to turn his head to the side even more. "It's weird on its own! _My reaction is not the problem here!"_

"Oh, lay off," Tetra scoffed. A rustle of fabric. "Open your eyes, you prude. I'm turned away."

Apprehensively, he yielded, although he only opened one eye at first, sure she was just saying she was turned away to get him to give in. As soon as that eye fell upon her back, though, he couldn't help himself—his other eye shot open and his head shot around.

Her back, although practically flawless compared to his, was hardly unmarred. Pale indentations were scattered here and there, and one particularly large mark ran between her shoulder blades. "See?" she said impatiently, crossing her arms, although how she knew Link had opened his eyes as promised was beyond him. "I'd have to be a pretty big hypocrite to think scars are weak, right?" As she shrugged back into her shirt, she couldn't help but add, "And why do you care so much what I think anyway?"

Turning back around to see Link's beet red cheeks was enough of an answer for her. The tension of the moment gone, Tetra allowed her smirk to slip easily back onto her face. "Oh, _I_ see," she taunted, crossing her arms again. "You _fancy_ me."

"I do _not!"_ was Link's first reaction. Then his eyes widened and he hastened to add, "I-I mean, not that there's anything wrong with you, j-just, I d-don't—" Seeing her satisfied expression, he went even redder and looked down, rubbing the back of his head. "I- I mean, it doesn't matter either w-way, I mean—I'm not going to _ask_ —I mean—I know a relationship between us could never, _ever_ happen, so I wouldn't—"

"Never _ever?"_ she repeated incredulously, sounding somewhat hurt. Sure that she was just messing with him, Link looked up, ready to don a glare—he blinked—he rubbed his eyes, then checked again—yup, he wasn't just imagining things—Tetra was _pouting._ And not in a teasing or insincere way, just... _pouting._

"Well, _Din,_ Link. I thought I was at least getting _somewhere."_ For once in her life, Tetra looked like she meant it. "I mean, I know I'm no _Maggie,_ but still." With a disappointed shake of her head, she gave a mock sigh. "Well, I guess there are still plenty of fish in the Great Sea."

Link stared. Once again, he rubbed his eyes to make sure he hadn't gotten any hallucinations stuck in them. He opened and closed his mouth rapidly, looking rather like a fish himself at the moment. Finally, in his bafflement, he managed an unbelieving _"What?"_

Tetra threw back her head and laughed heartily.

"Hero boy, you are the most oblivious person I have ever met," she declared, and then she stepped forward, shoved his shirt back over his head, and planted a kiss on his forehead.


End file.
